One Boy Missing(61)

‘What’s your point?’ George said.

‘Nothing. Just saying, I managed to find out. Bit of muckin’ around…but I managed to find out.’ He stared at the boy. ‘Patrick?’

‘What?’

‘You could’ve saved me a lot of time.’

‘Bart,’ George said.

‘I told you,’ Patrick shouted.

‘Not enough to help you. See, that’s the thing. You want me to find out where Tom—’

‘Bart!’ George insisted.

‘Dad, thanks.’

‘Tom’s gone,’ Patrick said.

‘Gone?’

‘It’s too late. Whatever I say now, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It’s not too late.’

‘It is.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He wouldn’t have kept him for that long.’

‘Who?’

‘The man…the men.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos I got out, and ran away, and he said if I told anyone he’d kill my family…’

‘He? Who’s he?’

‘The man in the car…’

Moy took a moment, dissecting Patrick’s words, looking for something tangible. ‘You got out, and ran away?’

Patrick spoke slowly, looking at the ground, remembering. ‘The shed had a dirt floor, and there was a little bit of light coming in, through the roof.’

Moy waited, silently.

‘I could hear pigs.’

Scraps of information. Moy willed the boy to speak, to say something specific, to pinpoint the geography.

‘I remember, I moved close to Tom and asked him what he thought the man had done to Mum.’

‘And what did Tom say?’

‘He said she’d be okay. I said, but he hit her. He just told me to be quiet.’

There was a short pause. ‘What was in the shed?’ Moy asked.

‘Bags…grain, fertiliser. Shovels and spades in an old chest. I crawled to the door and pushed it but it was locked. So I went back to Tom and he said, we’ve gotta get out.’

Moy and George were watching the boy.

‘So it was my fault.’ And he looked at Moy. ‘My fault we haven’t found him…that he’s…’

‘What?’ Moy asked.

‘Dead. That he’s dead. That everyone’s dead—Mum, Tom—that everyone’s…’ He trailed off. George put his hand over the boy’s, held it, squeezed it, and felt the plastic shape.

‘The more you tell me…’ Moy continued.

‘I have.’

‘Like where you’re from, and why you came here.’

Patrick reclaimed his hand.

‘There’s a lot of missing information,’ Moy continued. ‘The Barnes family is a mystery. But you, you could tell me why.’

‘I shouldn’t have run off,’ Patrick repeated. ‘Tom told me to. I didn’t know what to do, I just kept running. And when I went back, later, he wasn’t there.’

‘The shed?’

‘Yes, on the farm, with the pigs. See, he came to get Tom, because I ran away. He warned me…I should’ve…’ He looked up. ‘That’s when I came back to town…’

Patrick stood up and bolted, knocking over his chair as he ran from the room. Moy looked out of the window and saw him going into the shed.

‘What’s all that about?’ George asked.

‘I’m sick of waiting.’

George moved in his chair, shook his head and sighed. ‘I just about had him talking.’

‘What?’

‘Why his dad didn’t come with them, when they came here.’ He plugged in the transformer, connected the wires to the contacts, switched it on and listened as it buzzed. ‘Thirty years…sounds like new.’

‘He didn’t say?’

‘No.’

George carefully lowered one of the locomotives onto the track.

‘I thought if I made him face up to it,’ Moy said.

‘I think you were right before. You’re just gonna muck him up even more.’ He adjusted the current and the loco moved off. ‘Look at that.’

‘Great.’

‘Go out and see him. Tell him the train’s workin’.’

Moy followed the loco’s progress around the tracks. It jumped and almost came off at a bad join. But then kept going. ‘Used to seem bigger,’ he said.

‘Go on.’

Moy went out, across the yard of fat hen and wild radish, into the dark shed. He looked at Patrick. ‘You okay?’

No reply.

‘George has got your train going.’

The boy looked up. ‘I know.’

‘Come and have a look.’

Patrick sat, undecided.

‘I’ve done it again,’ Moy said.